Gogyohka-Thursday [66]

A long, hard year at last closes

its weary eyes with a sigh.

The salt-rain slips and falls-

and kisses the sere earth,

sent sleeping till spring.

Gogyohka-Thursday [65]

Guest Gogyohka by Tim Edelblut.

 

 Mom hears from the kitchen:

Piano, guitar, (bad) harmonies,

and the bongo...?

We make music

Wherever we are together.

 

 

Painting: Family Making Music by Jan Miense Molenaer

Gogyohka-Thursday [64]

Orbiting. 
 

Every year- 
 

Déjà vu! 
 

Have I been here 
 

before?

Gogyohka-Thursday [63]

 

 

He was a cutie.

'Smart dresser.

'a smiler, too...

and could shoot a Polaroid like a pro...

But alas. Too young for me.

Gogyohka-Thursday [62]

 

halls of brilliant, modern white

first I wanted a camera

then a notebook

then my best friend

to walk in the stillness with




P.S. I can't tell if I want it to be "walk in the stillness with " or "break the stillness with" ... You tell me- can I have both? ;-)


*Image, Dia Beacon - Walter de Maria: The Equal Area Series

:THANKFUL:

Every year brings new things to be thankful for... sometimes bountiful blessing... sometimes trials seen safely through...

As I and my wonderful family sat around the laden table this Thanksgiving, in turn, as so moved, we touched our utensils to our wine glasses- signalling a toast- and were thankful. 

We were thankful for two upcoming weddings- for spouses- for special relationships- for parents- for family- my ninety-four year old great-grandmother (with tears in her eyes) was thankful for one more year with all of us (and we, thankful, hope for yet another with her).

I too have many things to be thankful for. Too many to name.

But at this particular moment, tonight, I am thankful for two. I'm thankful-

to get to play Pinochle with my ninety-seven year old great-grandfather...

to hear my great-grandmother asked me, "Won't you play for me before I go?"

I played three songs for her- My Father's Favorite, Moon River, and As Time Goes By. She sat near the piano and listened as I played and murmured the words.

You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by.

Gogyohka-Thursday [61]

 

it is easy to wait

when you know for how long

but these endless

passing days

teach patience

Gogyohka-Thursday Sorta-Kinda [60]

This is me. 'Wrestling with Gogyohka-theory right here. See Gogyohka - 五行歌 [An Intro].

 

I didn't have time

for a five-line Gogyohka,

so I wrote a four-liner instead.

Someday I'll ask Enta if that's ok.

Metropolitan Meetings

"Are you a fan of Gustave Moreau?" That's how the first conversation began. I have the most delightful meetings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I think that's one of the reasons I love it. Since I am usually there by myself, and beauty is enjoyed best in company, I am forced to find a second to make company with wherever I go.

I was there for the forth time in a year just the other day. I wandered my favorite gallery,  listened to my heels echo on the wood floors of empty galleries, delighted in my new appreciation for (and recognition of!) countless artists- de Chavannes, Goughan, Seurat, Manet, Degas, Lautrec, Moreau, Van Gogh, and Klimt! When I grew hungry I grabbed some shawarma off a street vendor in front of the museum and watched an a cappella group perform on the sidewalk. The Met always sounds a bit like an airport- with countless nationalities buzzing about. But that day it was pervasively French- even my teacher noticed it- it seemed every other person was French! But oh, it was delightful. French couples. French families. French old ladies. French ten-year-old girls- sassing each other in French (charmingly adorable?). And more thrilling still- all the French voices murmuring all the French artist names. They sounded lovely rolling off their tongues.

I had been sitting in front of Moreau's Oedipus & The Sphinx for quite some time when a man- about fifty with gray hair and stubble, but with a youthful intrepidity about him- stopped , stooped, and queried, "Are you a fan of Gustave Moreau?"

I explained to him the nature of my paper- that I was making a case that he was not a Post-Impressionist, etc, etc, and this set him off on Moreau-rhapsodies. He agreed with me very much and told me he'd been to the Musée national Gustave Moreau in Paris and seen Moreau's countless paintings.

"I wish you could see this one- he has so many Aztec themes..." He looked around for his camera but remembered those particular pictures no longer on it. "It's just not normal to see somebody sit in front of a painting for forty-five minutes" he told me by way of explanation. We compared Moreau with Post-Impressionist work- and the man again tried to communicate the depth of detail he had seen in this one painting.

"Oh, Jupiter and Semele?" I suggested.

"Yes! That's the one!" (I can't tell you how pleased I was to know the painting's name). He told me I really should see the Moreau museum some day- I said I would if I got the chance. And we parted. And I stared at Moreau's collosal painting for another forty-five minutes.

For the "Master Painters of India" exhibit the Met had- get this- a whole bunch of magnifying glasses for patrons to make use of. And use one I did! The Rajput paintings were unbelievably detailed- with the gems of the tiny figure's jewelry practically indistinguishable to the naked eye.

Then, as I was perusing, I saw on a wall a blown-up photograph of India. I read the small description and let out a low laugh. Bundi, Rajasthan. A young guy (the only other person around at the time) turned around and said something, or simply looked, inquisitive. 

"Bundi Rajasthan," I explained, "I've been there." (Do you know the feeling? Of meeting a friend- someone familiar- unexpectedly in a far away place?)

He smiled and replied rather matter-of-factly, "So have I. It's very beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

A few minutes later I was in the gift-shop and there was this older, earthy-women fingering the wool scarves. They were lovely Indian weaves- my fingers stole to the price-tag- $125. :Gulp: They would hike the prices up- even in the Indian airport the scarves that sold for $7 on the streets were a good $100. The woman was still fingering them- I felt compelled to say something.

"They're much cheaper in India." 

She looked almost annoyed and said, very shortly in an accent- Italian, maybe- "I know. I go there every year. I was just comparing prices." She went back to her perusing- but presently turned to me again.

"Have you been to India?" (I have.) When? (2008). Where? (I told her).... It's beautiful, isn't it? It is. The pleasantries continued for a bit- and when parted and she called over her shoulder- "Maybe I will see you one of these days in India..." (In the Met more likely.)

I wandered some more and wove my way to the Robert Lehman Collection- where Renoir's Two Young Girls at a Piano resides. I looked at a Medieval exhibit- and at last- quite tired- sat down to soak in the atmosphere... I stared at the slits in the roofing- writing up details for my stories in my head. A woman-  plainly dressed with short-cropped gray hair- sat down next to me. We sat. And sat. And at last she says to me, "Who did that painting down there-?" (She points about ten yards away...)

"I don't know- I'll go look," I respond cheerily, popping up. She murmured after me, "I'm too tired to get up..."

It was a Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec painting- I knew Lautrec- and I brought back the name to her. She knew him, too. Her English was jumbled- she was saying something about how it wasn't Lautrec's usual style (I agreed) usually he'd darker (I agreed)- usually he's clownish and dark as in- "Moulin Rouge?" I suggested, "Yes, that one!"

She proceeded to tell me that she and her husband were art-collectors. I asked her where she was from (she thought I was from Paris?!?) and she said she was from the West Coast- but originally from Israel. She and her husband had been in NYC for a week- this was their second day at the Met- and she's was sooo tired but they had to go to the opera that night (and she wasn't ready to leave for Paris in the morning). She fell to rambling about this collector and that exhibition and this other person and somehow or other she asked me about myself and I told her I wrote. She never did write- she had a math-mind.

Her husband came by and they linked arms- she said to me, looking for the words, "Success... what is it they say? Success in life to you!" And they were gone.

What is it they say? Success to you? You simply must see this? I'll see you again?

All this beauty...

I am reminded of something Timothy Keller said in one of his sermons... about how  in Christ and Heaven we as Christians have before us the perfect romance- the most handsome prince- the loveliest wedding- a glorious battle and triumphant victory- awaiting, preparing, descending from Heaven. We need be not ashamed of loving fairy-tales. There is something beautiful and true in them: something that IS.

So you can see why I love the Met. For therein are centuries of visionaries,  historians, and poets, people who, in the image of God, are creating just as they were created- capturing the beauty around them- wrestling with beauty- fixating on the truth of Beauty itself. And where such beauty dwells- there also walk the beauty-lovers.

If you were there- we'd delight together.

This post is for Mrs. Viar and Mrs. Petersen. 
*Painting: First Steps (After Millet) by Van Gogh *Painting: Krishna Flirting with the Gopis, Purkhu (attributed to) *Painting: Two Girls at the Piano by Renoir 

Gogyohka-Thursday [59]

the words, like crumbs 


falling, caught beneath the stones

the light, like birds 

catching up what was

and is no more

Gogyohka-Thursday [58]

five years ago

I had big dreams

and now I live realities

far better than anything

I ever dreamed of

Gogyohka-Thursday [57]

my high-heeled boots
 

clopping irreverently
 

break the strained concentration
 

of countless
 

modern art connoisseurs




*Image of the painting Connoisseur by Norman Rockwell.

Gogyohka-Thursday [56]

sometimes the shock

of a fiasco

we narrowly missed

is as sickening

as actually experiencing it

Gogyohka-Thursday [55]

some people

are like fountains

cascading gentle wisdom

under whom we want to stay

and drink forever

Gogyohka-Thursday [54]

This is another one of the poems published in May, 2009.

 living

life

something

takes me back

to when sounds danced

*Photo Credit: Phil Marion. 

Gogyohka-Friday [53]

 

I'm sorry, very sorry.

You're shocked, I'm very sure.

But no one's more horrified than I

for forgetting this poem

for the first time in a year.

Gogyohka-Thursday [52]

Oh, Father

how many times

must I fall

before I remember in You

I am free to fly?

*Photo Credit: Entrer dans le reve.

Isaiah 40:29 [Dabbling with photo-editing]

 

 

 

 He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength.

Gogyohka-Thursday [51]

This is a poem I wrote in May, 2008 which was published a year later in a magazine in Japan. It's less concrete than my average Gogyohka- I wrote it contemplating someone dear to me who was leaving my life. Somehow, it seems to fit today- so here it is, for you!

sitting here

thinking of you

remembering

and trying

to forget

Gogyohka-Thursday [50]

And then came the day 

when Marilyn learned

she could still hear the world

through her headphones.

Her life as a recluse was wrecked forever.

Gogyohka-Thursday [49]

I go

merrily singing

and skipping

and twirling

around the college campus.

For pity's sake people, smile!

Gogyohka-Thursday [48]

the tongue, my weapon

has cleft the deepest wounds

into my memory -

my memorial

to those I lost in action

Gogyohka-Thursday [47]

"Some things never change."

What things? Even the mountains fade

and faces wither in ever-churning time?

God alone remains the same- 

yesterday, today, and forevermore.

Gogyohka-Thursday [46]

hats and bows

burned papers and sea-glass

I unpack my souvenirs

and remember

you

Fond Fare Thee Well

It's been about a year since I began Salt-Rain Tidings in August, 2010. I have so enjoyed blogging- documenting my experiences and sharing my thoughts. However at this time I think it wise to give my blog a rest as I have found it difficult to live in the present when I am constantly thinking and writing up posts. These next few months will hopefully provide me opportunity to devote more time to the people around me and to work towards publishing some children's literature (a project that has long been shelved in the shadow of my blog). This isn't a good-bye, just a take-care and see-you-later. I may begin re-blogging when I transfer colleges in January- or next year- or maybe just some time "in the distant future". But at any rate-  don't forget the archives, and per request I WILL be keeping up Gogyohka-Thursdays- so do stop in and check them out.

blessings,

L.E. Fiore

Gogyohka-Thursday [45]

strange

how "home"

is not always

where your

heart is...

Afternoon Tea in Company

"Find yourself a cup; the teapot is behind you. Now tell me about hundreds of things." -Saki

To my utter delight, I spent my birthday this year with the Townsend girls, my very oldest friends. (We go back to birth- a length of history I would challenge anyone to beat). To celebrate we went out for afternoon tea- all nine of us- our two mothers, their four girls, and my two sisters and I.

We spent the morning ironing our clothes (particularly feminine for the occasion)- doing our make-up- taking last minute pictures.  My little sister was particularly tickled in anticipation and told us with wide eyes- "We should pretend we're from England. From ancient times- before the revolution. And we should be very stiff and speak in English accents."

We went to a lovely tea shop- full of rose-china, linens, accessories, and satchels of tea. We were seated at two tables outside- next to the stain-glass windows and charming wooden-cottage doors. The tables were bedecked with flowers and lovely china, with pink napkins in flowered napkin-holders. Not far off- three older ladies looked up from their tea to giggle and wave at us and ask what the occasion was.  The charm of the atmosphere was contagious. (What is it in a woman- that blooms in the presence of beauty- and is ever seeking to recreate it around her?) We chose from a  vast tea menu two pots of tea to start off with (Dutchess Delight- which was a coconut, lemon, kiwi combo- Vanilla and Pieces- and later we had a mango tea and a blueberry tea)- and then adjourned to the dressing corner where we picked out hats.

What is a tea-party without hats?

Bonnets and boaters! Cloches and cocktails! Straw and felt! We had heaps of fun trying them all on and each choosing one to fit our outfit. I ended up with a wide-brimmed white hat- with a very coquettish netted veil. I found a pair of purple gloves to match my dress- but I ended up taking them off as they seriously interfered with eating.

Soon our tea came- and then our food. We supped on five different kinds of tea sandwiches- pesto and cranberry and humus and ham and cucumber- of that feminine shape and size that would make men shudder and despair of ever being truly satisfied. Next we had fruit and followed by scones with clotted cream, preserves, and lemon-curd. We finished off with strawberry shortcake (mine had a candle in it- upon which I wished).

As to our conversation, well, I shall not betray the confidence of that intimate circle by relating to you our numerous topics- or the smiles exchanged or the jokes shared and giggled over. No, for I hold the confidings shared by an entirely female circle sacred, and I could not tell you of them any more than I could offend the delicacy of my fair companions by relating to you just how many cups of tea each of us ladies consumed- imbued, as they were- with many slips of the sugar spoon and much cream besides. But I can tell you that there was joy- and joy abounding.

As three hours came to a close (you can imagine how much tea and talking filled those hours)- we perused the tea-shop- returning our hats to their hat-stands and fingering the linens for sale. There were three table-clothes purchased. One- a lovely paisley pattern of deep reds, oranges, and black- which, with my propensity towards anything Indian, I was immediately drawn to. Samantha, my darling friend, got it for me for my birthday. (Just the thought makes me smile.)

And then the antique store! More hats! More china! More linens! And cookery and table-ware besides. (We did not emerge unscathed. I believe there was at least one bracelet and exactly four silver napkin holders purchased.)

Five hours from when we set out- we returned home- weary from happiness. I can't think of a better way than to have celebrated my birthday. No tea could have been made any sweeter- for I shared it with the sweetest of company.

*Pictures by Madalynn Townsend. Used by permission.

Gogyohka-Thursday [45]

parking in Hollywood

snapping pictures of

an abandoned wine bottle

which later passed us-

acquired by three androgynous locals

River Rhapsody

There is in California a well-kept secret: the whereabouts of a river- secluded in a gorge- hidden by two mountain ranges.

On Wednesday we all- the eight of us and our grandparents- Poppi and Gaum- went river-rafting. We endured the hour or so of hair-pin turns to get there- and equipped ourselves with rash guards, wet-suits, hand-fin-gloves, hats, glasses, water-shoes, and a fair bit of sunscreen. We attempted to color-coordinate our various accessories- but in the end set out looking much like brightly colored tramps- our shoes, wet-suit, and air-mattress swung over an arm.

It is reachable only by way of an abandoned highway. For an hour you must walk in direct sunlight- the rising mountains to your left and to your right a cliff-drop into the gorge.

The chatter between us passes the time as our feet traverse the rocky highway deeper into the mountains- farther away from people, medical help, and proper bathrooms. We at last reach the turnoff where we leave the road and carefully descend a steep (and unsteady) dust footpath into the gorge. My sister takes my brother's arm- for her shoes have no traction and she does a great deal of discomforting slipping on the way down. After a quarter of a mile or so we reach the river where we put on our wet-suits and water-shoes and take our first dip into the river.

But the journey you must take in the blistering heat only magnifies the reward received in reaching the water. At first it is a shock of cold- and then the coldness is gone- and it is only a refreshing cool. You let your limbs slip under the rushing torrents- your feet find footholds between the river-bed stones.

We wade and stumble around rapids a bit up the river till we reach the first and second pool- my favorites. They design water parks after such places- clear, crystal, spherical pools spilling one into the other.

A veritable paradise- Diana in her infancy must have made these pools her bath- her radiant fingers smoothing away the edges from each stone till they gleamed, lunar pillars, around her aquatic palace.

We seat ourselves on the edge of the first lagoon- where the mothers and my little sister spend the day. From our packs we pull sausages wrapped in cellophane, carrots, and cheese. Those of us strong of lung (I do not include myself) blow up the ten air-mattresses which serve as our rafts. And then we are on our way- pushing off into a deep, green, shadowed lagoon.

In other places you can scarcely see the river floor- the waters turn from a languid green to an impenetrable black. In these secluded waters- who knows what lurks beneath the surface- sheltered in the shadow of the rising cliffs- hidden by the mountains.

This river is one of the few places where the rapids are large enough to enjoy- but not large enough to be of any serious danger. But this year the water is higher than normal (even higher than the other two times I visited in June) so we end up having to scramble around the falls- the current too strong to fight our way against. In between these scrambles we drift and paddle our way across lagoon after lagoon- till reaching our destination- where the gorge narrows and climaxes in a waterfall. In this particular section of the river the cliffs narrow so as to make a sort of passage between the mountains- so narrow you can touch both stone faces simultaneously as they rise above you for 20-30 feet.

Between Schylla and Charybdis you waver. To stay in the unknown depths of the black lagoon- or  to venture on into the foreboding enclosures of the stone passage, cliffs, and caves?

Through the passage you drift- dragging yourself along by the stone walls till the passage widens into a pool. Here the waterfall crashes down in a roar of wave and foam. My brother scares us by clambering up the rock face with the aid of two ropes and his own two adventurous feet- higher and higher above the stone and falls and water. We breath easier when he is back down. 

Where are the pirate ships? The smuggler's caves? Where in these depths do the mermaids play?

As we turn and head down-stream- this time with the current on our side- we pass two young men who are cliff-jumping. One of them lends his goggles to Paul who informs us that the depths of the pool are some thirty or forty feet and three-foot fish are swimming beneath us. (I didn't need to know that.) Paul takes the lead and he and I, close behind, blaze the trail ahead of everyone. We are both the lightest in our group- at 95 pounds- and we slide down the falls that cause others to capsize. Soon we are far ahead- and remain ahead no matter how many times we wait for the others to catch up. I am the first to sight our starting point- where we stow our rafts and return to the water unencumbered.

Beach yourself on a rock in the sun- let your feet bath in the rushing water- laugh and wave at those on shore.

We pull out our remaining victuals and the lot of us- on a rock in the water- rest from our toils and give each other back-massages. Then we begin the three mile walk home. 

Can we really leave this wonderful place? The cliffs and the river? We're here. For the moment. Here in California's best-kept secret. 

We reach the cars- we change back into clothes and shake off the sand. The day ends perfectly with Poppi treating us all to fantastic dinner- where we dine on pea soup and butter-lettuce salad, ravioli and baby-back ribs, sole and salmon- and for dessert a peach bread pudding and chocolate gelato. We crawl into beds- covered in scratches and bruises- aching all over- and full of good memories. Some of us are likely to return tomorrow.

But where is this Eden? I cannot tell. For I have become a secret-keeper.

Moonlight Moments

Sometimes it’s difficult to vacation on vacation.

There was a certain other-worldness to our week at Camp Spofford. I left the laptop at home. I was in a new place with new people. I was able- at least during the day- to forget my life and all its problems: a true and timely vacation.

But here… in a wonderful way, in returning to where I was a born, where I was a child- and the homeland of my parents and grandparents- I feel more in tune than ever with all that has made me who I am. There is no escape into alternative selves here.  Instead I am bombarded with memories from the past and I incessantly think of the future- of next semester at college- and of January when I transfer.
    

My sister seems to feel the same way. We were sitting in the spa- slowly cooking ourselves in the hot water and in the brilliant, harsh sun. “It is hard to just be.” she said. She too constantly thinks of the future. It is difficult to just take in the moment. 

In California- and so often unable to take in the moment. I fear missing these moments. Already I feel there have been moments not fully appreciated- already in the ever growing past.

Such thoughts as these played in my head last night as I gazed up alone at the night sky outside my grandparent’s house in Santa Rosa. The sky is a curious black in California- verging on purple, hinting of legions- almost misty. It is of that impossibly large quality peculiar to the flatlands. And despite the street lights (again, unique to suburbia), stars still shown down on my bare feet and upturned eyes. I felt, as I looked at it, that there is no sky like it- and how could I have forgotten it- and how could I possibly remember it?

I ran- across the grass and down the cooling pavement in the moonlight- thinking. And suddenly lights from an approaching car stopped me in my tracks and I stood very, very still  (abashed, as I was, to be caught alone and dancing at night on a sidewalk) next to a bush (which resulted in my getting many sharp needles in my feet) till they had passed and pulled into a driveway not too far away. I began to walk as inconspicuously as possible away from them when I heard some, well, rather unmistakable noises. I turned- and in the corner driveway stood the elderly couple just gotten out of the car- locked in each other's arms kissing. I stood, transfixed for a few moments watching this peculiar scene- then realized it would be very awkward if I was caught and moved on. I glanced back a few minutes later and they were still at it. (My grandparents informed me that their respective spouses were friends and had died and since then they've been going steady for three years.) 

Such tender love on such a tender night. The stars themselves were smiling. I smiled back- and the words from a song (which seems to be the melody that themes this vacation) -a stirring, wistful rendition of Over The Rainbow by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole- played in my head. Someday I’ll wish upon a star and wake up where the clouds are far behind me…

Such are the moments that make up days. A beautiful young mother, pregnant with her third daughter, at the pool. All the old ladies- second grade teachers and navy men’s wives- with their twinkling eyes and smiles- all of them jams (sweet, pink, and preserved). These are the details I commit to paper- in haste lest the memory loose its potency- in hopes that I won’t forget.

I see fields of gold- grass turned to royal repose in the heat of summer.

I see trees- scattered and rising from the golden dunes. They are short and squat clusters of green- their gangly arms like the disproportionate limbs of trolls- weighted down and dragging on the floor.   

“If this is going to run around in my head, I might as well be dreaming…” (Nickel Creek)

I hear the sound of my Grandpa’s voice- as he prayed over our first meal here- thanking our good Lord for each of us- so special to him. And I sense- rather than see- my grandmother, like a ministering angel, doing the dishes as we climbed into bed- doing the laundry after we’re all sleep- and turning off the last light. (I was several times awake- my mind racing- late into the night. I wish I had joined her.) And I see her- her hand over her mouth- hiding something, or keeping something down- as she waved good-bye in the middle of the street as we drove away. 

And as I write this- that last memory brings the tears streaming down my face. The back of my throat burns.

Gogyohka-Thursday [44]

my sister

sees a sea-otter

for the first time

and makes a squeal

like a sea-gull in my ear

Sonoma and Sierras

The shouts of our triumphant rejoicing eclipsed the rumble of traffic as we crossed the California border. We think a Californian must have drawn  up the state line. They allotted all the desert waste land to Nevada and the second we crossed the border we were in the pine forests of the sierra mountains.

All I could do was stare out the window (and did for the successive three hours). I stared at the gray knobby rocks and the tall pine trees and the way the mountain-side floor drifted and dipped and rose and felt wafts of familiarity wash over me.

We drove over the mountains- and at one point we got out and looked at the green valley below- pine trees as far as the eye could see- rising again on the distant mountains. The sunset made them golden. I'd forgotten how beautiful Northern California is. The light was familiar. The trees were familiar. And oh, the sweet smell of pine- so familiar I wanted to cry. I found my mother's arms- "We're home."

The first two days we spent with very, very old friends. Our families had gone camping together before I was old enough to remember- but I do recall my sister and I playing with their oldest son and the day we went to the wharf in San Fransisco and I thought there was a snake in the hold of one of the ships. We had a wonderful time of fellowship together- talking about theology and culture and health food (they make home-made pickles and sour-kraut and kombucha- which, by the way, has won me over and I now thoroughly enjoy). Their eldest daughter and I took a walk and we talked about how the Lord had worked in our own lives and in those in our families.

It was a singularly odd sensation for me- to pass houses full of plants and landscaping modes  (wood chips and cement types) I hadn't seen in ages, yet with each tree or scent emotions and sensations and hints of not-fully-realized memories flocked to my brain. I almost couldn't think- I felt drenched in a nostalgic goo.

We are at present at my grandparent's house in Sonoma county- wine country. My grandpa gave us a tour of their complex (telling us funny stories- like how the bridge players have to wave their arms in the air to keep the motion-sensitive lights on) and we visited Jack London's estate and Luther Burbank's place (he cross-breed plants to develop 800 new varieties- including the Shasta daisy and the Russet potato). We dozed in Burbank's garden- while christian music from a band drifted from the park across the street.

My grandmother's been making us some fantastic dinners- we've had soup and salmon and filet mignon. My sister and I went grocery shopping with her yesterday. Costco is the same wherever you are but the people dress differently. (California guys know how to dress.) But in Trader Joes I smile to see six shelves devoted to different kinds of tortillas- at at Safeway the cash-register lady automatically (despite our six bags) asked if we "need help out to the car today?"

We've spent a few evenings at the spa- talking to friend's of my grandparents (we've had very interesting conversations on astrology and teaching). Almost every night we hold a double Pinochle tournament. We have nine players so we get two games going at once. Our grandparents taught us how to play years ago so they are ridiculously fun and intense games.

It still feels surreal that we're here. Actually here. All the more strange because we drove instead of being teleported by plane. At times I betake myself to dreamy walks outside. I do cartwheels in the thick grass. I stalk lizards. And I delight myself in again feeling hot sidewalk under my bare feet.